


I Will Not Say Goodbye

by liggytheauthoress



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Relationship, Lots of Angst, M/M, Songfic, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 05:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2535797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liggytheauthoress/pseuds/liggytheauthoress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s been two months, six days, four hours, thirty-six minutes, and twelve seconds since Connor’s entire world ended."<br/>Song is "Will Not Say Goodbye" by Danny Gokey</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Not Say Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> MEA CULPA. FORGIVE ME. It's just that this has been begging me to write it forever and I finally finished it and I feel like I should probably be feeling more ashamed of myself than I am right now....

It’s been two months, six days, four hours, thirty-six minutes, and twelve seconds since Connor’s entire world ended. Two months, six days, four hours, thirty-six minutes, and twelve seconds since he woke up in a hospital bed, a bullet wound in his head, and the doctors told him that Murphy hadn’t made it.

**_Sometimes the road just ends_ **

**_Changes everything you've been_ **

**_And all that's left to be is empty_ **

**_Broken, lonely, hoping_ **

It was supposed to be an easy job. Quick hit on a low level mob boss and a few of his enforcers, in and out and home in time for a shot at McGinty’s. Easy.

They’d been cocky. That was their mistake. They’d gotten so used to the work that they’d started to think of themselves as invincible. Sure, they’d get hurt - they’d get shot and cut and bruised - but they’d always bounced back. Or limped back. They had work to do for the good Lord, and the good Lord was obviously going to look out for them.

Either the Lord had been busy with more important things that night, or He’d been punishing the brothers for getting so over-confident. Whatever the reasons, things had gone incredibly, irreparably wrong. There were ten guys where there should have been only five and there were more guns firing at the twins than there were supposed to be.

Murphy went down first.

Somehow that always seemed to happen. No matter how hard Connor tried to watch him, the darker MacManus always got hit with the first bullet, the first punch. But that never managed to keep him down. Knock him down, yeah, but he never stayed there.

Not until that night.

It took Connor only a split second to sense that something was wrong. Murphy wasn’t getting back up, he always got back up, or at the very least kept shooting.

Connor couldn’t check on him until everyone else was down. He took out the two remaining goons and then sent a bullet through both the mobster’s kneecaps - couldn’t just shoot him dead, he and Murphy were supposed to do that together - before dropping to the floor beside his brother.

“Murph?”

It...it wasn’t good. Connor could see two bullet wounds in his twin’s chest and three more in his stomach. Blood was trickling from the corner of Murphy’s mouth and his breathing was accompanied by a gurgling noise.

Murph squinted up at him with glassy eyes. “D’you get ‘em all?”

“Aye. Everyone but the boss. We do him together. Like always.”

Murphy gave a strangled chuckle. “Think you might hafta do this one without me, Con…”

“Don’t fuckin’ say that,” Connor snarled. No fucking way was he letting his brother just give up and… “Quit bein’ a baby and get the fuck up.”

Instead of obeying, Murphy reached over and grasped Connor’s hand in his. “Not...not sure I can, Con…”

“The fuck are ya talkin’ about? ‘Course you can. Macho Murph, remember?” Connor’s voice was shaky and panicky and he was holding Murphy’s hand in a death grip.

Murphy laughed again, a harsh, wet sound. “Yeah...yeah, Macho Murph…” He let out a series of choking coughs, spattering blood onto his shirt, and his eyes slowly closed.

“...Murph? Murphy?” Connor tightened the grip on his twin’s hand and leaned over him, trying to see if he was still breathing. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare die on me, ya bastard! You aren’t fuckin’ allowed to do that to me, don’t you dare leave me alone!”

But Murphy didn’t respond, didn’t open his eyes, and Connor just kept yelling, and he only had a second to register the sight of the mobster grabbing one of the goons’ dropped guns before one more silenced shot rang out and everything went black.

**_I'm supposed to be strong_ **

**_I'm supposed to find a way to carry on_ **

He’s lucky.

That’s what they told him at the hospital. Apparently the mobster had fled the scene, thinking both brothers were dead. The motel maid had shown up only a few minutes later and called 911. The bullet Connor had taken to the head hadn’t been fatal, but it had been enough to keep him in a coma for almost two weeks.

Murphy had been gone by the time the ambulance arrived.

According to the paramedics, he’d still been holding Connor’s hand.

Lucky.

How is he supposed to feel lucky when his brother, his twin, his heart, his everything, is gone?

**_I don't want to feel better_ **

**_I don't wanna not remember_ **

**_I will always see your face_ **

**_In the shadows of this haunted place_ **

**_I will laugh_ **

**_I will cry_ **

**_Shake my fist at the sky_ **

**_But I will not say goodbye_ **

Connor spent another two weeks in the hospital. They sent a counselor or some shit in to see him a few times, ask if he wanted to talk, but Connor just stared silently at the ceiling until he was alone again. Yeah, he wanted to fucking talk, but not to any of these people.

The doctors told him it would be good for him to talk to someone, that it would help him start to get his life back on track. Connor told them to go fuck themselves.

He didn’t want to go back to the flat. He never wanted to go back there, not if it couldn’t be with his brother right behind him. But when the doctors discharged him, he did. And as soon as he got home, he sat down at the table, lit a cigarette, and got completely, utterly wasted.

In the middle of the night, he woke up from his alcohol-induced stupor, and for a split second he was positive he saw Murphy sitting across the table from him.

_**They keep saying time will heal** _

_**But the pain just gets more real** _

_**The sun comes up each day** _

_**Finds me waiting, fading, hating, praying** _

Romeo tries to stop by a couple of times a week. Sometimes Dolly and Duffy drop in too, and Doc comes around every Sunday to make sure Connor is actually eating and sleeping. He is, but just barely, and only because he needs the energy if he’s going to track down Murphy’s killer. Eating, he can manage without too much trouble; if he goes too long without food he can practically hear Murph taking the piss out of him for being an idiot and makes himself choke down a sandwich or something.

Sleeping is harder.

Connor’s mattress was designed for one person but it feels too goddamn empty with just him there, seemingly vast, barren space where Connor’s heart is supposed to be. Connor doesn’t know how he’s supposed to sleep when there’s no warm body next to him to wrap his arms and legs around, no chest pressed against his so that he can hear their identical heartbeats, no mess of dark hair to bury his face in. Sleeping with one of Murphy’s shirts doesn’t even help anymore; the scent is long gone.

He gets used to seeing the sun come up.

Romeo, Doc, all the others, they all tell him it will get easier, that no matter how miserable he is right now, eventually it will start to get better.

Connor scowls at them and takes another drink.

_**If I can keep on holding on** _

_**Maybe I can keep my heart from knowing that you're gone** _

Most mornings, Connor pours two cups of coffee.

He lights two cigarettes and sets one on the edge of the ashtray and tells Murphy he’s getting tired of being the one to make all the cigarette and beer runs. He remarks that it’s been a while since they made any hits, or gone to the pub, or gone anywhere, really. He suggests maybe heading back home to visit Ma sometime, it’s been so long since they’ve seen her.

He knows it’s not healthy. He really does. He knows he should probably be seeing some kind’ve fucking shrink about this, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. Because if he does, he’ll have to acknowledge that he’s alone.

Connor is already broken, but that would destroy him.

**_Cause I don't wanna feel better_ **

**_I don't wanna not remember_ **

**_I will always see your face_ **

**_In the shadows of this haunted place_ **

**_I will laugh_ **

**_I will cry_ **

**_Shake my fist at the sky_ **

**_But I will not say goodbye_ **

Sometimes, when he’s really drunk - which happens a lot - he can see Murphy. It’s never solid, more like an image streaming out from a projector, flickering and slightly transparent, but it’s still Murph. Connor will see him stretched out on the couch or in bed, or coming through the front door, or lounging out on the fire escape with a cigarette. Every now and then the not-Murphy will even talk. Usually he just tells Connor that he’s an assole, throws all the old affectionate insults at him, typical Murphy shit.

When that happens Connor is never sure if the noise he ends up making is laughter or something else.

But he’s very sure of the noise he makes on the rare occasions when not-Murphy looks straight at him and says, “Love you, Con.”

**_I will curse_ **

Connor can’t find Murphy’s rosary.

It’s not around his neck (which is where it’s been almost constantly since Connor left the hospital) and it’s not hanging by the door and it’s not anywhere he’s looked, and he knows he’s overreacting but he can’t help it, this is important, this is a piece of Murphy that’s missing and if he doesn’t find it soon he’s going to start fucking hyperventilating.

“Fuck,” Connor growls, kicking over a chair and running his hand through his hair in frustration. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He shoves the table aside, throws an empty bottle at the couch, sweeps everything off the counter and sends it crashing to the floor, grabs his mattress and tosses it across the room before tearing at the sheets, cursing in every language he knows, because how could he be so fucking stupid, how could he lose this, stupid, stupid, stupid…

There’s part of a strand of beads sticking out from under his pillow. Connor dives for them and inhales unsteadily when he sees it’s the rosary, clutches it in his hands like it’s a lifeline.

And in a way, it is.

**_I will pray_ **

He goes to church every Sunday. He has to admit, he’s not sure why. Connor’s not sure he can believe in or worship a Lord that would separate him from his brother. It doesn’t really matter, because when he goes, he doesn’t pray to God.

Connor prays to his brother.

He asks for Murphy to give him the strength to get through another day. He tells Murphy how much he misses him, how much he loves him. Apologizes for letting Murph die.

Begs Murphy to come back.

**_I'll relive everyday_ **

In the past, sentiment and nostalgia have never been Connor’s thing. They were more Murph. When they were growing up it was always Murphy who loved poring over the family photo albums and who insisted on keeping mementos of every significant event.

These days, though, Connor finds himself doing a lot of remembering.

He renembers him and Murphy as kids, back in Ireland, back when the world was simple and uncomplicated and they had no worries beyond Ma catching them smoking behind the shed. Murphy’s lop-sided grin, one of his front teeth missing, dirt on his face and his hair always messy no matter how their mother tried to keep it under control.

He remembers their first few weeks in America, how terrified they’d been of being alone in a country where they knew no one. And in the end, it wasn’t so terrifying, because even if they had no one else, they had each other, and that was really all either of them needed.

He remembers all the nights he fell asleep with his other half snuggled against him, Murphy’s breath on his neck. All the evenings spent at the pub with their friends, talking and laughing. The way he and Murph used to bicker and fight and argue, but never with any truly malicious intent, just the usual sibling disputes.

He remembers Murphy’s smile. His voice, his laugh. The way he sounded when he said “I love you” or Connor’s name. The look in his eyes when Connor said I love you back. The feeling of his body against Connors, of his lips on Connor’s own.

Connor lets himself get lost in the remembering, because if he stays in the past, he can ignore the present for just a little while.

**_I will shoulder the blame_ **

Connor only visits the grave once.

He brings a carton of cigarettes instead of flowers, placing them reverently on the ground before forcing himself to look up at the headstone. It’s simple, dark grey granite, with Murphy’s name and the appropriate dates chiseled above the words “SON - BROTHER - FRIEND”. Connor runs his thumb over the word “brother” and only just manages to fight back the sob building in his throat.

“Fuckin’ piss poor job of bein’ a brother I did,” he mutters shakily, fingers moving up to trace the letters in Murphy’s name. “You’d’ve been better off without me.”

He can practically hear Murphy telling him that’s fucking bullshit, but Connor ignores it. Because it’s the truth. If he’d done his job and kept his twin safe like he was supposed to, this wouldn’t have happened. He wouldn’t be crouching in an overgrown cemetery in front of his brother’s grave. Maybe no one else blames him for what happened, but he does.

Hell, he even blames himself for that fucking bar fight, so long ago now. If he hadn’t fucked up that night and pissed off those Russians, if he hadn’t put himself in a position where killing them was necessary, he and Murphy would still be working at the plant. Mediocre, uninteresting, but safe.

And alive.

**_I will shout out your name_ **

Connor swallows and rests his forehead against the granite, closing his eyes and trying to pretend, just for a moment, that none of this is real, that the past couple of months have just been a horrible, horrible dream and that any moment he’ll wake up in bed with a snoring Murphy sprawled across his chest.

When he leaves the cemetery he knows he won’t be coming back.

That night, he manages to sleep. And he does dream. Suddenly he’s back in that motel room, the room where his entire world came crashing down around him, and he’s watching everything happen in slow motion. He sees the mobster raising his guns to fire and desperately tries to throw himself in front of the precious body the bullets are heading towards, but he can’t, he can’t fucking move at all, he’s just stuck there watching as Murphy jerks backwards and hits the floor and doesn’t get up again, and only when the darker twin’s chest stops rising and falling can Connor move again. He falls down next to his brother’s body and holds him and screams his name over and over, as if Murphy will come back if he just yells loud enough.

He’s still screaming when he jolts awake, tears streaming down his face.

But there’s nobody next to him. No Murphy for him to wrap himself around and cling to until his pulse stops racing and he can breathe normally again, no brother to nuzzle against him and sleepily whisper that it’s okay, it was just a dream, they’re both fine.

Connor throws the lamp at the wall.

**_I will laugh_ **

**_I will cry_ **

**_Shake my fist at the sky_ **

**_But I will not say_ **

**_Will not say goodbye_ **

**_Will not say goodbye_ **

**_Will not say_ **

**_Oh, whoa, whoa, oh_ **

When Connor finally finds the man, there’s no ceremony, no family prayer. It’s in the mobster’s own home, and there are bodyguards coming down the hall, he can hear them, but he doesn’t care. He just shoves the barrel of his gun against the bastard’s temple, hands steadier than they’ve been in months, and pulls the trigger.

A second later there are more shots and there’s a sharp pain in his chest and Connor feels himself falling. The room is spinning and he can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs and he’s very, very cold all of a sudden, but he can’t bring himself to mind. All the hate and anger and misery that have been raging in his heart for so long have suddenly quieted, replaced by a soothing calm.

The room’s starting to go dark, but at the same time Connor swears he can see a light coming from somewhere above him. He feels like he’s floating, drifting towards...something. Something good. And just before his eyes close, he hears a beloved, familiar voice murmuring, “Come home, Con. I’ve been waiting for you, deartháir.”

He’s been refusing to say goodbye up until now.

And now he doesn’t have to.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *barricades self in room hiding from angry muse!Connor*


End file.
